


A Toast to the King

by Saentorine



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, Brothers, Drinking, Drinking Games, Drunkenness, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Drinking, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Partying, Silly, Vomiting, Writing In Quarantine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24127282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saentorine/pseuds/Saentorine
Summary: Hunted by Sauron's forces and needing to keep his reflexes sharp at all times, Aragorn has never been properly drunk. On the night of his coronation, his friends seek to change that.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Elladan & Elrohir, Aragorn | Estel & Legolas Greenleaf, Aragorn | Estel & The Fellowship of the Ring, Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	A Toast to the King

Weary from the battles at Helm’s Deep and Isengard, with the shadow of Mordor still looming beyond, the semi-reunited Fellowship kept their hearts light with discourse on lighter concerns: whether they were surprised or vindicated that Legolas could hold his drink better than Gimli.

“Of course he can; he’s much taller,” argued Merry.

“But Gimli is broader,” pointed out Pippin. “He’s got more of a gut for holding it all.”

“The constitutions of the Elves cannot be directly compared to mortals’,” added Aragorn.

"Now, you didn’t invite _us_ to play,” pouted Pippin.

“No offense, but you have your size working against you,” said Gimli. Legolas suppressed at a smile at the irony of this comment.

“In a _fair_ fight, accounting for ratio of weight to liquid volume,” insisted Merry, apparently having thought very hard about it, “we’d make a fair show!”

“I will accept a rematch from any one of you,” Legolas replied mildly. “I wish you the best.”

“Oh, that’s the last time I’ll be hustled by the likes of an Elf!” Gimli blustered. “Playing you’re as lightweight as you look, nattering on about a _tingling_ in your fingers. Bah!”

“How come Aragorn didn’t play?” asked Pippin. “Do you reckon he’d outlast Legolas?”

“I wouldn’t compete,” Aragorn replied. “I drink very little.”

“But you _do_ drink,” Gimli observed, certain he had seen a cup in his hand that very night.

“I’ve always had a toast when offered, to be polite,” he explained, “or bought a pint to keep a seat at one of Mr. Butterburr’s tables. But I’ve never had more than a single drink in an evening.” 

“Not even in the safety of Imladris?” asked Legolas. “Didn’t Elrond let you drink in his halls? Once I was of age-- well, a bit before-- my _ada_ never hesitated to include me.”

“By measure of the Elves, I’m _still_ not of age,” Aragorn laughed grimly.

“And not everyone’s father has a drinking problem,” Gimli sniffed, apparently crediting Thranduil as the reason for his opponent’s success.

“I’m not of age,” announced Pippin, “and I’ve never had any trouble getting a drink when I want one. You only have to lie.” He shrugged as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. Aragorn raised an eyebrow.

“And you never sneaked some anyway?” asked Merry.

“You’ve met Elrond,” said Aragorn, and the others nodded. “And once I was on my own . . . it’s always been my choice, but a necessary one. The Enemy’s forces have hunted my family for centuries and we have barely eluded them. Should my mind be any less sharp, my reflexes any less quick . . . I cannot afford to be taken off guard.”

“Well, when the Enemy is finally defeated, we will make sure to get you properly drunk!” said Gimli as the others hailed in agreement.

***

In the course of a month, the world was transformed.

After the siege of Minas Tirith, Aragorn waited patiently until some of the shock of the erstwhile Steward’s parting had worn off and his surviving son had recovered enough for his duties. The last thing he wanted was to seem eager to manipulate this period of transition, although his standard still flew over his camp outside the gates of the city as it had since the end of the siege-- and word had spread through the city that he had already been amongst them to heal the wounded, including Lord Faramir himself. So long as there were still duties to be done in opposition to the Enemy, he did not feel it right to consummate his own fate without knowing the fate of the truest heroes in their journey, still lost in Mordor.

But then with aid of their diversion the force of Mordor fell, never to be revived, and Frodo and Sam were carried to safety on the backs of noble birds. Only when Frodo was well enough to participate, in the full bloom of spring, did Aragorn consent to come into the city and claim his title.

However, his brothers Elrohir and Elladan, despite their contributions to the Grey Company, declined to join the ceremony nor subsequent revelry. They had plans to depart in the morning to make summons to Elrond and Arwen that the city was secure and Aragorn’s fate had been fulfilled.

“Besides,” Elladan had quipped, “we wouldn’t want to call attention away from you in your moment. Men are so utterly fascinated by the Eldar; we would be a distraction.”

“Legolas will be there,” Aragorn pointed out.

“But he’s . . . Legolas,” Elrohir squinted in judgement.

There was merriment throughout the city in the wake of the coronation, but as the sun set the celebration became more intimate as the king’s closest companions moved into the closer quarters of the feasting hall.

Aragorn sat beside Frodo, still feeling astonished to find himself where he was, _king_ as had been foretold, in a world now unthreatened by the great Enemy of two millennia-- and overflowing with gratitude towards the little figure before him upon whom so much of that victory depended.

There had been a ceremonial toast for the citizens already, but in his usual habit he had only taken a sip before setting it aside to continue the myriad other solemn rituals. Now he felt a stirring beside him; two small hands reached up to place a pint glass on the table and push it forward. “Thank you, Pippin,” he smiled.

“You remember our promise,” Pippin reminded him.

At a tap on his arm from the left revealed Merry, who presented him with another. “Two already?”

“It’s only ale,” Merry assured him. “It’s good for a start. Besides, I think your Gondorian barkeeps have been watering down the portions for us-- as if we couldn’t take it!”

Aragorn made mental note to let the server know not to insult their foreign guests while Pippin left and returned with another two pints. Merry went to take one and Pippin pulled it away. “Get your own!” he scolded. “If the King’s starting with two, then so will I.”

Legolas appeared and presented him with a delicate glass of red wine. “Why are you having ale?” he asked. “You ought to start an evening like this with something worth toasting over.”

“And then be done with ale for the rest of the night?” Gimli pointed out, elbowing up to the table. “ _Ale before wine, and you’ll feel fine_ ,” he recited. Then he set down his own offering, a small amount of a dark and pungent liquid. “Have it when you’re ready-- but if ever an occasion calls for a _stiff_ drink!” 

Sam eyed the assortment of beverages laid before the new king. “Mix all that and you’ll be a right mess,” he cautioned.

“Isn’t that the point?” Gimli gave a wink.

Aragorn began the night’s secondary activities with another toast to those who had supported him in the defeat of the Enemy and his rise as king, including a nod to Boromir’s memory which prompted a few tears from all who remembered him. His first drink was consumed quickly as nearly everyone else offered a toast to him in turn; only Gandalf did not drink but raised his pipe instead.

The effects were minimal at first. He was already familiar with the warm sensation in his veins and the feeling of a veil drawn over his senses, but after the two pints his self-conscious solemnness as new king in the wake of hard battle slipped away, leaving him feeling quite charming and finally _deserving_ of the crown that had been placed on his head earlier that day.

He downed Gimli’s offering and continued to sip Legolas’s wine as he watched Merry and Pippin sing and dance in their jolly way, providing an evening’s entertainment all on their own. They pulled up Sam and Frodo for a turn, although Frodo’s weakened constitution did not allow him to participate for long. Aragorn was not up for their vigorous dancing, but he rocked and clapped along. 

He did join Frodo in a rousing rendition of Bilbo’s own _Eärendil was a Mariner_. At the end when they sang of the weeping of elven-maids he seized Legolas by way of humorous illustration; this went unappreciated by Legolas, who elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

Aragorn had wondered if Faramir, whom he knew the least of all of them, might feel uncomfortable among so many newcomers to his city, but the young Steward apparently had all the company he needed. He lingered beside Éowyn who was in turn trailed by her brother, the three of them observing this gaiety with their own drinks in hand. Watching Aragorn, Éowyn had a hand over her mouth-- though whether to disguise horror or amusement was unclear. She gave a meaningful glance to her brother as the king placed his palms on his hot face, wondering if he looked as red as he felt. “He can’t hold his drink,” she whispered, as if this were a scandal that changed her entire opinion of him.

Faramir didn’t seem nearly as critical, but he noted her own empty cup. “Well, so long as _you_ can, shall I bring you another?”

She handed to him while over his sister’s head Éomer noted Faramir’s own unfinished glass, as if provoking the question of whether this was merely Aragorn’s personal quirk or endemic to Gondorians. Aragorn suspected he might revive the same contest he had set to Legolas and Gimli.

After another endless glass of wine poured by Legolas-- the Elf had taken the bottle for himself and did not wait until his companion’s cup was empty before topping it up again, so Aragorn was never certain how much he had drunk-- he began to feel particularly virile and confident. Instead of a drinking contest, Aragorn wound up battling Éomer in strength: fist clenched in fist and elbows on the table as they struggled to force the other’s arm downward. He crowed in victory when he slammed Éomer’s wrist upon the wood. Éomer demanded a rematch, but Aragorn took another long draught of one Gimli’s bitter, bracing drinks and danced away, leaving Éomer to challenge Imrahil instead.

After that, snippets of the night seemed to disappear. He felt himself “wake” in a moment, unsure of what precisely he had been doing the moment before. At one point he found himself nodding along to a long-winded lecture of Gimli’s suggestions for the rebuilding of Minas Tirith. He wasn’t sure how long the Dwarf had been talking nor remembered anything he said. Finally, he shook his head and told him to try again someday when he was sober; he couldn’t make any promises in this state. Then he collapsed his head into his arms on the table and began to laugh for several minutes at the thought of running the kingdom in such a drunken stupor.

It was strange how easily another drink went down after so many. He did not notice any increased effects but felt almost as if he were merely drinking water-- until all of it crept up on him at once in a sudden dizzy spell.

He stood still as the last of the celebration wound down around him. It had been some time since Sam had escorted Frodo away to bed. Gandalf had vacated his corner; he must have retired as well. Also absent were Faramir and Éowyn, but he had seen them depart with much whispering and giggling and a glance over their shoulders for Éomer’s whereabouts; they likely were not sleeping.

Gimli was still in the hall but fast asleep in a chair, his snores echoing over the general chatter. Somehow he had found a small ginger cat, which had made a bed of his beard-- or the cat had found him. Pippin was shouting for Éomer and Imrahil a dramatized pantomime of his encounter with the palantír as Merry attempted to trundle him off to bed.

Aragorn observed all of this in a haze of detachment. The hall seemed to swirl and sway no matter how still he stood. Longing for the assurance of solid ground, he slid quietly to the floor and rested against his head against the stone wall. This did not immediately calm the fervor stirring in his bowels, so he closed his eyes, hoping that if he didn’t see the “movement” of the world around him the contents of his belly might stay put.

A hand shook his shoulder and he felt the lip of a glass pressed to his lips. Aragorn recoiled from what he was certain was yet more alcohol.

“It’s water. Drink,” Legolas commanded him. “The whole thing. And then I’m fetching you another.”

“I would like to go to bed,” he admitted.

Legolas helped him to his feet. He tried to lean on his companion but could not walk straight even with his guidance. With an impatient sigh, Legolas scooped an arm beneath him and hoisted him over a shoulder. Aragorn gave an indignant cry as this did _not_ improve his nausea, but he was too addled and exhausted to resist. Legolas carried him briskly but smoothly from the hall-- until the wide angle of his head made contact with a doorframe. Aragorn yelped Legolas uttered a quick apology. 

“Well, the crown is not supposed to sit easily upon the king’s head, after all,” he quipped. Aragorn could only groan in response.

The king’s chambers had been diligently prepared for him in the preceding hours, but Legolas did not take him there, instead delivering him to the only figures besides their fellowship that he could fully trust to care for him without risking unsuitable rumors dispersing through the city. In dark and silence he picked his way down the lowest levels of the city and through the gate, out to the encampment where Aragorn had spent the preceding night.

When Elrohir and Elladan emerged from their tent, Legolas finally released his burden to the ground with a thud.

Elrohir grimaced. “Oh, he’s drunk.”

“And he’s now _our_ responsibility?” asked Elladan. “Seems _the king of Gondor and Arnor_ ought to be able to take care of himself.”

“Clearly not right now,” said Legolas. “And I suspect you’d have to answer to your sister were some harm to befall him in this state.”

Elrohir rolled his eyes at Legolas’s solemnness. “You are his friend, but we are his brothers. Do you really think we’d leave him alone like this?”

“But because we are his brothers,” Elladan added, “it will also be our privilege to lord this misery over him.”

However, their own misery was to be endured first. The tumult of the long journey carried half upside-down having finally caught up with his belly, with a grunt Aragorn leaned forward and emitted a stream of liquid vomit pungent with alcohol.

Elrohir glared at Legolas as Elladan retrieved a chamber pot to hold in place for the next round. “Thank you for this,” he snipped at Legolas above Aragorn’s head even as he held his mortal brother’s hair out of the way.

When Aragorn’s stomach had calmed enough, the three of them arrayed him in the modest cot he had slept in for many preceding nights, having insisted that he could not stay in the Citadel until the people of the city had formally declared him king. They placed the chamber pot at his bedside and propped him on his arm so that if he were to vomit again, he would not choke on it.

“There are others who will need assistance getting to their beds,” said Legolas by way of taking his leave.

“How very kind of you to take responsibility for all of them.”

“Aragorn is usually the one to watch out for the others-- but seeing as he’s not fit for it now, I suppose it must fall to me.”

“You might have started earlier by not allowing them to get into this state in the first place!”

It was only a few short hours later when Aragorn was woken abruptly by a stab of razor-sharp light to his sore eyes as his brothers opened the door to their tent to prepare for their journey. He groaned and threw an arm over his face.

“Terribly sorry,” Elladan replied with sarcasm. “But Elrohir and I must depart immediately if we are to make it to Lórien by nightfall.”

“And it is your first full day as king of Gondor,” Elrohir reminded him. “Do you not have duties to attend to?”

Aragorn sat hastily upright-- and immediately regretted it as the blood rushed to his head with the force of a hammer. He checked for the chamber pot beside his bed in case he should need it again. He was still dressed in his coronation finery, though it was quite rumpled and not of the sweetest smell.

“So I am to walk like this _yet again_ into the city, in some farcical recreation of yesterday’s procession?” he lamented.

“I suppose anything worth doing is worth doing twice,” Elladan laughed. “At least you don’t have to defeat the Enemy more than once.”

“You’re their king now,” Elrohir reminded him. “If any of them give you trouble . . . behead them, or something.”

***

Aragorn was pleased to discover, starting on his second night as king, that the king’s bed was much more comfortable than any he had slept in in many years. It was certainly more comfortable than a cot or undergrowth at the side of the roads he had traveled. His days were now filled not with combat but matters of the head, and he often slept late to recover his strength after the tribulations of the past year and rest his mind so that he could administer wise judgements on behalf of the realm.

Later in the month, Elrond and Arwen arrived with a host and many gifts from both Imladris and Lothlórien. They arrived late at night with little opportunity for the reunion they desired, but in the morning, Arwen appeared in his doorway before he had risen. She stole light-footed into his chambers, setting something beside the bed as she approached. He pretended to be asleep, though his smile likely gave him away.

Her lips found his, gently pressing them open to taste his warm breath. He responded in kind, nuzzling at her forehead and nose.

“I’m sorry to have woken you,” she whispered.

“No, this is better than any dream.”

He pulled her into the bed with him, wrapping his arms around her under the soft bedclothes. She tucked her head beneath his chin and he breathed deep, indulging in her scent with an intimacy denied them for too long.

“I suppose _ada_ wouldn’t want us in bed together before we are wed,” he mused. In their younger days Elrond had said _he would know_ \-- and indeed, in the way of Elves, he supposed that was literally true.

“I have not slept here,” she pointed out. “And we have not done anything unbecoming of the unmarried.”

“Not yet,” Aragorn agreed, before kissing her again in hopes of straining that boundary.

When they took a respite from this, Arwen retrieved the basket she had left on the floor. Aragorn sat upright against his pillows, noting the light behind his curtains and thinking of what he must attend to.

Arwen seemed to read his thoughts. “You are owed a day of rest,” she assured him, “or at least a morning. You may tell your councilors it is for the planning of our wedding, if you like.” She pulled a bottle of wine from the basket-- and then another, and another. 

“ _Ada_ brought many bottles of Dorwinian wine for the wedding, but I asked if I might share one with you now-- and Elrohir and Elladan insisted they furnish these to you as well. Have you developed more of a taste for it in your recent travels?” She laughed. “And here I was thinking I would have you under the table if you tried to keep pace with me.”

“I’m sure you would,” Aragorn agreed. “In fact, I’m so certain that I won’t even accept the challenge. You will have to choose but one for this morning, for I will only have one cup!”


End file.
